Yowzah Oneshot Collection (1)

147(G)

                           Leyaam

                   crystalsoulslayer

River wasn’t always rough with him. Fingernails and teeth, bruising grips and reddening smacks abounded when she sensed he could handle it, when he cooed for more. But those stopped the moment he protested, even if he were joking, and anyway, she was gentle about as often as she wasn’t.

The first few times, it had been rough. All fun and games, each teasing the other, lots of laughter, a variety of interesting positions. Until, after one of their adventures, a very sleepy Doctor had passed out on the couch in the TV room. He’d awoken from a nightmare to find her stroking his hair, gently, looking down at him with an expression of unbearable tenderness. She stopped touching him when he opened his eyes. Silently, he inclined his head toward her, asking for more; she didn’t understand, so he said softly, “Don’t stop.”

He loved when she was gentle. He craved it. When he went without, he’d dream about it, and wake up crying quietly, unable to go back to sleep. It was like a physical sensation, an extra layer burrowed into his skin that he couldn’t get rid of on his own. Only River could, River and her sweetness, her softness, her warmth, the curve of her belly and the coils of her hair. (And that thing she does sometimes with her tongue, just on the very tip of his cock, so delicate—)

Once, it got so bad that he broke into Stormcage, stumbled sobbing out of his TARDIS and into her arms, bewildering her with his whispers of “please” in garbled Gallifreyan. Which, it turned out, she didn’t actually speak at the time. He had terrified her; she thought he was injured, thought something horrible had happened.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

“No, I—River—leyaam—“

“What does that mean?”

“Please, means please, River, please, please—“

“Please what? What do you need?”

Desperately, he tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, which broke his hearts. He crumpled, sobbing, gesturing helplessly toward her, undone by his need. He couldn’t stop until she understood at last and tucked him into her bed, settled in next to him, kissing his swollen eyelids and his tousled hairline and his chapped lips until he calmed down. He didn’t stop apologizing until she smacked him.

He thought sometimes that she was waiting for him to initiate the actual sex when she was gentle, because he never started it himself. He was never quite comfortable doing it. He didn’t want to pressure her, and if she wanted it from him, all she had to do was ask. He’d never once turned her down.

River always started rough. Teeth nipping at his lips, hands squeezing hard at his wrists, his arse, once on his throat. If he responded in kind, she knew he was okay, but if he said leyaam or pulled tentatively away, she softened instantly. Except for the first time. Her first time, she didn’t know.

That was the only time she had scared him. By then, he was used to it; to her, it was new. So when he’d murmured leyaam against her lips and taken a half-step back, and she hadn’t followed him with a murmur of understanding and a more even-tempered kiss, he’d been very upset indeed. Not that he showed it; it wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand. He just explained afterward, gently, and she agreed immediately. Not her fault.

Nor was it her fault that it always, always hurt.

Part of Gallifreyan anatomy was a certain set of nerves in the hands that established telepathic connections; they ran from each fingertip into bundles in the wrist, then all the way up both arms to the spinal column to the brain, where they wired directly into the telepathic center. When certain hormones were released—those responsible for intimacy—these nerve clusters were hypersensitized, encouraging the relevant Gallifreyan to establish telepathic contact. If contact were not established, the sensitization would increase, and increase further, and keep on increasing until it became painful, even agonizing. Rather a design flaw, in his opinion.

He couldn’t link with River. Ever. Spoilers. They were always out of order, so one of them would find out something from contact with the other. It was inevitable, and it could never happen.

And so, it always hurt. Even when she was gentle. Especially when she was gentle. It was his punishment, he thought, for being with her, because he always felt that he was taking advantage, somehow, even though he knew intellectually that he didn’t take advantage of her, that she loved him of her own volition. Every kiss was stolen, every touch a burglary, every shared orgasm grand larceny.

She knew. She never told him.

He knew she knew anyway.